first of all, I should be working out right now. or folding clothes. but I'm not- I'm eating about half a loaf of rye bread, torn off in little chunks, and staring at my laptop. I guess I enjoy it more than working out.
This morning was cold. 53 degrees, poppets, and misty- cold enough I was wearing my leather jacket and still suppressing an occasional brr. The summer solstice was two days ago, and that's what you get, I guess, when you can see Canada from your house.
I feel pretty placeless- sitting on a fence right now of instability, insecurity, and that niggling bitterness that probably won't ever leave my soft palate alone. I guess I always moved forward with this philosophy that if you gave something your best, I mean really went all balls-to-the-wall, you'd get by without any regrets. I'm finding out that isn't completely true. Maybe this feeling will dissipate, time heals everything, right Jerry Herman? The landscape of where my life could go, must go next seems frenetic: a tableau of ships, grey hulking superstructures--all flat tops and squared edges. Rolling fields of flinty, white-capped waves. I wanted this. Did I? I think I did... I can't remember.
I'm trying not to think about it. After all, the decision has been made, the board has deliberated, and I just don't know it yet, the future that is my future that is bogged down in the cogs and machinery of bureaucracy. I stand watch. I write, remembering the forgotten feel of banging out a hardline news story. Reaching for that twist-of-a-phrase in the human interest piece, grabbing the glint of a command bell against a flag. Simple tasks. Things I can do.
There will be plenty of time this year, for this cold solstice. And everything after.